


I'm Your Family

by Lydia_E_Nheers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lydia_E_Nheers/pseuds/Lydia_E_Nheers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft receives some terrible news. John is forced to tell Sherlock. How does Sherlock handle it? (Johnlock, established relationship)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Your Family

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Sherlock  
> I don't have a beta or anyone to Brit-pick so any mistakes are my own!

xxxxxxx

“Pancreatic cancer.” Mycroft whispered softly, looking at the white coat clad doctor seated across from him. The older man nodded sadly; but Mycroft knew that the doctor had lunch rather than the death sentence he had just handed down at the forefront of his mind. Oddly enough, it was kind of comforting.

“Yes. Advanced I’m afraid” The doctor replied, his voice the low and practiced condoling tones that all doctors possess. Years of giving bad news to patients had honed it perfectly.         

Mycroft took a single breath, and let it out. Then another, and then another. He had never been more aware of breathing than he was at that very moment. He must have taken millions of breaths in his lifetime. Millions and millions, and he never noticed. Funny, that. The hand holding his umbrella tightened ever so slightly. He looked into the doctor’s eyes and asked the question that was banging on his brain like a hammer.

“How advanced is advanced?”

 

xxxxxxxx

John Watson was having a perfectly ordinary and pleasant day when he exited St. Bart’s at five PM, the only things on his mind were the prospect of Thai take-away and perhaps a movie with Sherlock. Maybe he could even get the detective to eat something tonight, as he just wrapped up his latest case last night. John hadn’t even gotten a chance to blog about it yet. He could do that tonight if Sherlock didn’t feel up to a movie.

He should have known, living in that insane world with Sherlock Holmes, that any day that was ordinary, calm, peaceful even was probably going to turn out to be a bad one. Now was no exception. As he exited the building, an ominous black car pulled up to the kerb in front of him. He rolled his eyes and groaned inwardly. Just as he did, his mobile phone gave a chime in his pocket.

Get into the car John. –MH

He thought briefly about rejecting the “invitation.” But it really wasn’t worth the effort. He would just climb into the car, go wherever Mycroft wants to meet him, find out what the problem was and get back to the flat. The door opened in the back to reveal Anthea sitting in the car. He climbed in; shutting the door and the car drove off into the rainy London afternoon.

The car pulled off at some abandoned warehouse, John wasn’t too sure where they were. “Go straight in, he’ll meet you there.” Anthea said, finally looking up from her mobile.

“Yeah yeah. I know the drill.” John grumbled and got out. He entered the warehouse to find Mycroft standing in the middle of the room, leaning on his umbrella. In his other hand he held a manila file.

“You know Mycroft…” John started, entering the room. “You could just send a text. Or call.”

“Some information is best given out in person.” Mycroft replied, a slight smile playing at his lips. His eyes were strangely flat. Not even the slightly malevolent light shone through. His face was devoid of emotions, except for that tight, little smile. It unnerved John a little, though he’d never actually admit that.

“Then you could just come to the flat.” He came fully inside and stood in front of Mycroft, glaring at him hard.

“I needed to get you alone.”

Then you could have just met me at a café or something. You don’t have to kidnap me.”

“Duly noted.” The elder Holmes smirked. Again, the smirk did not meet his eyes, which remained expressionless. He had the distinct feeling Mycroft was going to tell him something he didn’t want to hear. Sherlock was probably involved somehow. He knew that Mycroft knew that he and Sherlock were sleeping together, and had been for six months now.

“What’s this about?” John asked, his glare intensifying; body stiffening. His soldier’s instincts took over and he stood straight up, meeting the taller man’s eyes with a steely gaze.

Instead of a verbal reply, Mycroft merely surrendered the file.

John took it from his hands and opened it. It appeared to be some sort of medical file. He scanned it with the practiced speed of a doctor. He got to the bottom of the last page and looked up. Mycroft was meeting his eyes with an unusually forceful, piercing stare. “Pancreatic cancer.” John said, his voice low.

“How very astute of you John.” Mycroft said, his voice taking a very slight chill.

“How long?” John felt breathless, his eyes widening with concern and pity. Pancreatic cancer was pretty much a death sentence. Mycroft was going to die, barring extensive treatment. John knew it was possible, if caught early. Something in Mycroft’s look told him…they didn’t catch it early.

“It’s advanced.  Probably about three months. Five or six if I’m fortunate.” The government official replied almost nonchalantly. Yet it was feigned, and his words hung between them like deflated balloons.

“When did you find out?”

“Yesterday. I needed time to put this file together and begin my…arrangements.” Of course, he would take action right away. He was nothing if not neat, tidy and horribly efficient.

“Are the doctors going to try to treat it?”

“I declined. We don’t need word about this getting out. Doctors have a habit of being…chatty with one another.” He looked pointedly at John. A barely disguised order for him not to reveal this to anyone. “Not to mention, there is only a 5 to 10 per cent chance I will survive, even with treatment. We don’t need any….messy treatments when the prognosis is so low.”

“Jesus…did you tell Sherlock yet?” John asked, breathless.

“No.”

“But you’re telling me. Why?”

“You’re a doctor John.” Mycroft said, his smile becoming a little thinner. Tighter and more strained. “You’re used to giving bad news.”

“No. I _won’t_ do that Mycroft.”  John replied, breathing growing tight in his chest. “I will not be the one to tell Sherlock that his brother is…dying.”

“I’m dead anyway John. Whether or not you tell him.” Mycroft replied, smile completely gone, replaced by the cool indifference John knew. The Iceman indeed. “I trust you. I know you love him. I know you’ll be…gentle.”

“I won’t do it Mycroft. That’s for you to tell him. It’s not my business.”

Mycroft’s shoulders sagged a little, and his weight leaned more on the umbrella. He then reached his hand and clasped John’s shoulder. “Please. John.” He breathed, meeting his eyes with something akin to sadness. It was so out of character, so alien to Mycroft’s usual cold, icy demeanour, that John was startled backwards. “Please.” He repeated, a note of pleading entering his cultured voice. “Please tell my brother what I cannot.”

The former soldier steeled himself, breathed deep and slowly nodded his head, meeting the government official’s gaze with his own. “Okay Mycroft. Okay. I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you.” He replied, letting go of the doctor’s right shoulder.

“I’ll do it.” John said, his eyebrows knitting together, making fine creases across his forehead. “But I don’t like it.”

“Thank you Doctor Watson. Anthea will bring you home now.”

Anthea, as if summoned appeared at John’s elbow. John turned to leave with her, but just before he began walking towards the exit, he turned back to look at the elder Holmes brother and just said. “I’m sorry.”

Mycroft merely nodded a reply and turned away.

John got into the sleek, unmarked car and headed back for the flat. The whole drive home, he wondered how he would break the news to his flatmate. Sherlock and Mycroft’s relationship was far from functional. Actually, the two brothers downright hated each other for the most part if John was being completely honest. Although that was mostly from Sherlock’s end. He had the feeling that Mycroft would be perfectly happy to patch things up with his younger brother if only Sherlock wasn’t so damn stubborn. Sherlock had never told him what the feud was about, and he never asked. It just wasn’t his place to meddle.

 He thought momentarily about simply handing the detective the file that Mycroft had given him and not saying a word about it. But that wouldn’t work. He’d never get any sort of reaction from Sherlock if he did that. His partner deserved more than that. Not to mention, from all the years of experience he had, he knew and understood that no matter who you are, you should be given some sort of human contact when you are being told that your family member is dying. Especially since Sherlock didn’t have any other family of his own, his parents dying years ago. Mycroft was the only family that Sherlock had, and John just couldn’t do something as cold and impersonal as handing him a file and walking away. Even if he didn’t love the man, Sherlock still deserved more than that. So as the car pulled up next to the flat, and John climbed out, he braced himself for whatever was going to come his way. Knowing Sherlock it would probably just be some sort of sneer maybe a quip or two. Or maybe just cold silence. Either way, John needed to be there for him. It was the doctor in him. It was the _John_ in him.

The doctor slowly ascended the seventeen steps to the flat, clearly stalling for time. He got to the door, took a deep breath, and entered quietly and shut the door.

He found Sherlock sitting in the kitchen still in the pyjama’s and housecoat he had been wearing that morning when John left for the clinic. He was pouring over a microscope, which was focused on a petri dish. What was in the petri dish, John didn’t even want to hazard a guess. Sherlock was bored, but not oppressively so. Not yet. It didn’t _hurt_ yet. So now…well no time would be ideal, but if John was going to find a good time to tell him this...it would be now. Before boredom and stagnation had their total grips over the consulting detective’s mind and would probably send him into even more of a tailspin.

“You’re late.” Sherlock sniffed, not even looking up.

“Yeah….I know.” John started. “Sherlock...?”

“hmmm….yes?” He asked, not really listening.

“Sherlock. Please look at me.” John replied.

Something in his voice made Sherlock instantly concerned. It wasn’t like John to sound so….scared. Terrified really. His voice was one of forced calm and trepidation, and Sherlock didn’t like it.

“John? Are you okay?”  He looked up, his stomach dropping as he took in John’s face. His eyes were wide and pupils dilated. His breathing was accelerated and his hands shaking ever so slightly. It almost looked like arousal, but Sherlock knew the difference. John was upset and afraid. This wasn’t good.

“Jesus Sherlock…there isn’t an easy way to say this.” John sat down in the chair next to Sherlock and rubbed his temple before continuing. “I…erm saw Mycroft today.”

“I was wondering why you looked so tense.” Sherlock replied. Then his eyes fell at the folder in John’s hand. “Is that a case? Did Mycroft give us something to work on?” His blue/grey eyes instantly started gleaming with excitement; then dulled a little with disappointment as he realized…. “No…he would have come here personally if he had something.” He started, his voice moving at a thousand miles an hour. As it always did when he was deducing. “So this was of more a personal nature, considering he summoned you and not me. This could be about me…? But judging by your reluctance to share the information that you are holding in your hand, I assume that it isn’t about me…or you. So …OH…..” His eyes widened. “This is about Mycroft himself.’

Damn…John hated when Sherlock was able to deduce everything about a tough situation without even pausing for a moment’s breath.

John let in and out a deep breath before replying. “Yes Sherlock.” He put the file down on the table. “Your brother was diagnosed with late stage pancreatic cancer. I am so sorry.” His hand snaked forward to touch Sherlock’s fingers. For a split second, a flicker of something went across his face, and his hand jerked back away from John’s gentle touch as if scalded. Then Sherlock merely jerked his head, to show he had been listening and resumed looking into his microscope. “Is that all John?”

“…Yes… but Sherlock…do you understand the prognosis?”

Sherlock looked up and met him with a cold, emotionless stare. “Yes _doctor_. I am perfectly aware. Mycroft has probably less than six months. Correct?”

“Yes…” John felt no desire to lie to Sherlock now, to puff up the numbers to make it seem like Mycroft had longer. It would be unfair of him, and completely condescending. Not to mention, it would never work. John was a terrible liar.

“Well I always thought something would eventually strike down the British Government, but I didn’t think it would be the British Government himself.” Sherlock said, looking back down.

John got up and put on a kettle for tea. He was expecting this. This is how Sherlock dealt with things. He would either just be icy, sarcastic, or completely silent. In this case, it looked like it was going to be a sort of combination of all three.

John put a steaming mug of tea in front of the detective and retreated into the sitting room with his own tea. He took off his shoes and sat down in his armchair, flipping on the telly. He put it on some sort of sitcom, and just let his mind wander, not actually paying attention to the characters onscreen. After a few minutes of silence, John heard the unmistakable sound of paper rustling from the kitchen. He knew, without having to look that Sherlock was reading the file he had left on the table in front of him. Maybe it was just curiosity, or maybe it was motivated by something deeper, but John was nonetheless encouraged that his partner would at least look at the manila folder.

He had known, lived with and loved Sherlock Holmes long enough to fully understand and predict was he was going to do next. He was going to read the file, come into the sitting room, turn down John’s offers to make dinner or go and get takeaway, and not mention a single word about the life altering news he just received.

 He was of course, proven correct.

 Over the next few months, the only thing John would see that would show Sherlock’s interest in what was going on with his brother would be the web searches on the subject in both Sherlock’s and his own browser histories. He would meticulously read everything he could get his hands on about it, and never say a single word about it. If John tried to ask him how he was feeling, he would merely reply that he didn’t wish to discuss it, or that he didn’t feel anything. He would reject any and all of John’s suggestions that they go and see Mycroft, who they had heard from Anthea was starting to decline. Fast. And ask for Sherlock at regular intervals. No, Sherlock would act and pretend that everything was normal. Status quo. He still took any case Lestrade threw his way. He still showed off at every opportunity. He still wore his big coat with the collar turned up. He still ate irregularly, played the violin at all hours and fucked John with everything he had. His actions would scream that everything was still normal. That each day was no different.

But the more frequent appearance of circular nicotine patches on his arms would prove otherwise.  A silent testimony to just how hard Sherlock was thinking about it. Thinking and not feeling. Never feeling. John knew he was feeling something, but expressing it, even just admitting it to himself were totally separate.

Xxxxxx

Four months. That’s all it took. Just one third of the year. Just over a season. That’s all the time it took to turn Mycroft Holmes from the quietly dominating, unassuming yet chilling man that ran the government and could start wars with a single phone call, and turn him into a jaundiced, impossibly thin version of himself.

“Let’s go.” Sherlock said one Tuesday morning out of the blue, walking into the sitting room from his bedroom.

“Go where?” John had replied from the sofa where he was blogging about their most recent case. “Did Lestrade call?”

“I want to see him.”

John paused and looked at him for five breaths. “Let me go get my coat.”

Thirty minutes later, they were in Mycroft’s bedroom. It was dimly lit and smelled like sick. He had declined going into hospital, preferring to stay at home. He hired a small team of nurses to watch over him during the day and night. A doctor came every day to see him and check up on him. Anthea was nearly always on hand as well. Mycroft had gone to work every day, until he physically could no longer get out of bed without assistance. Then he did his work via video conference and email until he could no longer withstand the pain long enough to get through a meeting. He then dictated everything to Anthea, and she made sure to get it done. She was a one-woman, finely tuned machine, and Mycroft trusted her implicitly.

When Sherlock and John came into the room, she was sitting in a chair, next to his bed reading aloud to him. Over the last few months, Mycroft had rediscovered a long forgotten love of Shakespeare and had Anthea read him all of his plays and sonnets. Today, it was Othello. His eyes were closed, but he was smiling gently. When the two men entered the room, she stood up and leaned down to whisper their arrival in his ear.

She came over to them. “He’s having a bad day today. He’s in a lot of pain, and the nurse just gave him some medication. So he’s a bit out of it.” She took her blackberry out of her pocket and left the room, texting only god knew who.

 Sherlock went to the bed and sat in the vacated chair. He leaned down and looked at his brother’s thin, yellow face. Mycroft’s eyes opened. “You came.” He whispered.

“You’re dying.” Sherlock replied.

“Obviously....” Mycroft tried to chuckle and it merely came out as a sad rasping sound. “Sherlock…” He whispered, gripping his younger brother’s hands. Trying to gather every bit of strength he had left in him. “I fell asleep last night, and I had a dream. I dreamt that you and I were on our pirate ship. Do you remember our pirate ship Sherlock? I dreamed that you and I were together, fighting evil pirates on the seven seas. Laughing and brandishing our swords like we were children again. Do you remember? Please tell me you remember…please…remember….and forgive me…” His grip slackened on Sherlock’s wrist, and he fell back into his pillow, asleep.

For a brief second, John saw Sherlock’s face twist into something pained, and like a flash of lightening it was over. His face smoothed out into its usual cool mask of indifference once again.

“Anthea did tell us today was a bad day. Not quite there with all the pain medication.” John said, touching Sherlock’s shoulder. The younger man gave a noncommittal jerk of the head and swooped out of the room without looking back. As Sherlock left, Anthea re-entered and just before John reached the door to chase after Sherlock, he turned and witnessed Anthea leaning down, over Mycroft’s sleeping form, and kiss his forehead and pat his hand. Not like a lover, John observed. But more like a daughter. A daughter saying goodbye. It was not going to be much longer, and John knew it that moment. Before she could look up, John was gone, chasing Sherlock down the hall and out of the large house.

He caught up with him outside and they summoned a cab. The ride back was stony and silent. Sherlock stared out the window, and John stared at Sherlock, trying desperately to read his mind. Something had happened while he was in the room with Mycroft. Some sort of memory had been triggered during their conversation, and he wanted to know what it was. Maybe it was the start of all their troubles, and making Sherlock unlock it would be the start of a reconciliation between them. Maybe not, but he could at least try. These two bloody gits were brothers even though they were both stubborn and childish.

They arrived at their flat and went inside, shrugging off their coats and hanging them on the stand near the door. John made a quick pasta, which Sherlock didn’t eat, instead merely moving the noodles around the plate, not saying anything. Eventually, he gave it up and went into the other room.

John finished eating, washed up and joined his partner in the sitting room. “So…a pirate ship?” John asked, cautiously.

“Mere drivel from someone who was under the influence of heavy painkillers.” Sherlock replied, not looking up from the book he was reading in his armchair.

“Sherlock, I saw your face when he mentioned it to you. Did you really own a pirate ship?” 

“It’s nothing. Just childhood memories, which I haven’t been able to delete. But you should.”

“Why? They’re part of you and that means they are good. Tell me about them if you want.”  John replied, pulling his armchair over so it was right in front of Sherlock’s and gripped his hand.

“Fine.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and began speaking. “When I was a child, I read Treasure Island and Robinsion Crusoe, and believed that someday, I could be a pirate. In fact, I pestered Mummy so much, she allowed me to take fencing lessons. As close to sword fighting she would allow. But every one of my children’s pretend games was about pirates.”

John smiled a little at this. He could just imagine a little curly haired boy running around with a paper towel tube, pretending it was a sword. The thought made Sherlock seemed more human. Sometimes John forgot that Sherlock ever was a child, and didn’t just spring up whole and adult from the ground somewhere.

“For my seventh birthday, my father had a pirate ship built in a large tree on our property. I was naturally, elated. I couldn’t wait to show Mycroft, and have him play pirates with me. A few months later, he came home for the summer holidays, and I immediately started pestering him to play with me. What I failed to understand was that at the time Mycroft was fourteen years old, and wanted no parts in playing pretend gams with a child. But in my arrogance, I had assumed I was the centre of my brother’s whole world. I begged, and pleaded for him to play with me, until finally one day he broke the mast and the hull, yelling about how stupid it was, and how stupid and gullible I was, and that I could never be a real pirate because they didn’t exist anymore. I cried and ran to Mummy, and he went and slammed the door to his bedroom. That was the start of everything I think. Mycroft pulling himself away as all children eventually do, and me being too young and arrogant to understand that.” 

“So I was right all along wasn’t I?” John asked.

“Right about what?”

“That this whole feud between you and your brother really _was_ childish.” 

Sherlock merely nodded. “It was. It opened the door to resentment. From there, hurts and fights began. Eventually, we grew to loathe each other. He waltzed right back into my life like the insufferable git he is when I graduated university. But by then the damage was done. He hadn’t been a part of my life since I was seven, and at twenty I wasn’t going to let him storm back in and start meddling now. But he did anyway. He meddled, and interfered and spied on me and ordered me around ever since.”

“Well Sherlock, you know what you have to do now don’t you?” John asked, meeting his eyes.

“What’s that?”  He replied uninterestedly and opened his book again.

“You need to forgive him.”

“Why would I do that? “

“You’re brother…he’s dying Sherlock.”  John said, exasperated. Honestly, Sherlock could be so bloody stubborn.

“People die every single day doctor.” Sherlock snapped, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

“People do.” John agreed. “But family doesn’t.” He stood up and went to bed.

Sherlock remained sitting in his chair the rest of the night.

Xxxxxx

But of course, Sherlock would get no such chance. No bedside tears and handholds were happening. Those things happened in movies, but this was life. And this was real. No confessions. No pleads for forgiveness and affirmations of such. Sherlock received a text message from Anthea the very next morning, saying his brother had fallen into a coma the night before.

That night, Sherlock fucked John hard and fast. He bit his skin and made bruises. He was loud and nearly violent. Without a word, John understood. This wasn’t lovemaking. This was desperate, angry, confused, sad and even hateful _fucking_. He knew that he was merely a means to a physical release of tension and emotion for him. Sherlock pounded into him furiously, releasing animalistic grunts on every thrust until he came with a long, strangled moan that sent John toppling into oblivion with him.

Afterwards, John held him close and kissed his hair over and over again, whispering that he loved him and that he would always be there. Sherlock remained silent with his eyes closed. He heard John’s words and held them tightly to himself. He turned over and rested his head on John’s chest and listened to his post-orgasm slowing, steadying heartbeat. “Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.” Every beat was a private affirmation that John was alive. That he was alive, they were together and it was safe here. That even though this was happening…they still had this. This place. Their bed and their flat, in their little corner of the world where they could be themselves and shut out the rest of the world. And that meant more than what John could possibly say with words. He slowly fell into a light doze, with John’s hand threading in his hair and his ear right over John’s heart.

xxxxxx

Mycroft Holmes died just about two days later. Stopped breathing around five AM Friday morning, and pronounced dead a half hour later. It was just like Mycroft; John later privately mused to himself, that he would pop off in the middle of the night when there would be no one  to catch him doing anything as undignified as dying. Anthea texted Sherlock at six, telling him what happened and where his brother’s body was. He and John went right away.

Mycroft was in his usual dark blue three piece suit and silver tie, umbrella tie tack and all. Anthea had dressed him per his request. It was so like him. There would be no announcement in the newspaper. Mycroft had wished his death to be like his life. Quiet, unassuming, secret. They decided to respect that.

There would also be no church services. Mycroft had been a staunch atheist since the day he came out of his bedroom at the age of six, and solemnly announced to his parents that god was nothing more than a fairy tale that stupid people told each other to make death easier, and he would have no part in it. Sherlock was of the same mould, so just a simple graveside service would suffice.

He died on a Friday and was buried on Saturday. The only people in attendance were Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. John knew that both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were there to show emotional support to Sherlock, and he was glad for it on Sherlock’s behalf. Mrs. Hudson had only met Mycroft a handful of times, (he had been quite rude to her on a couple of those occasions, earning rebuke from both Sherlock and John) and Lestrade hadn’t actually met him in person at all as far as the doctor knew. Yet, they were both here, trying to support the consulting detective, like good friends should. Anthea wasn’t in attendance, but John also knew that she had already said her goodbyes.

The cemetery was nice. Mycroft was buried at the bottom of a small hill, under a tree. For whatever reason, he had stipulated in his will that he not be buried in the family plot, but in a small, plain graveyard. There was a stream nearby, and John could only think that he chose this peaceful and private spot as a silent invitation to Sherlock

The headstone was simple.  He had made his arrangements in advance, so the stone was ready for the service and burial. It was granite that said only “Mycroft Holmes” It was unobtrusive, yet elegant. Mycroft all over, really. No sentimental epithet, no dates even.  Just his name, the only real proof the world had the man existed at all. Any and all records of him serving the Government were destroyed Friday afternoon as had been long arranged. Mycroft didn’t want anything jeopardizing the safety of the few select people he cared about after he was dead. No one would ever know he had been the government, the secret service and the CIA (on a freelance basis of course)

Sherlock stood tall, his back rod straight and his eyes forward. Not looking at anything, not focusing. John gently snaked his hand down to brush his fingertips over Sherlock’s wrist. Anything to show him what he said the other night was true. He wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t leaving. He would stay. As long as Sherlock wanted him, John would stay.  Mrs. Hudson and Greg both stood a bit awkwardly to the side a little, allowing Sherlock and John to be closer.  After the grave was fully filled, Mrs. Hudson placed a small bouquet of flowers in front of the stone. None of the men had thought of flowers. John was glad that they had their landlady.

After a while, they mutually decided it was time to leave. Mrs. Hudson invited the others back to her flat for tea and sandwiches. As they turned away from the headstone to head to the car, (Lestrade had driven.) Sherlock had quietly asked for a moment alone. The other three mourners nodded and kept walking. Lestrade clapped him gently on the shoulder as he passed, as he and John gently guided Mrs. Hudson who was dabbing her eyes, out of the graveyard.

When the landlady sat in the passenger side of the car and Greg got into the driver’s seat, John stood at the top of the hill, looking down. He could see Sherlock standing in front of his brother’s grave for a long moment. His back remained perfectly straight, his chin was raised almost defiantly as he stared at the name on the stone. Silently, he reached out and touched the cold stone with his fingertips. The detective spun around on his heel then and marched up the hill. As he walked, his eyes met John’s and he merely nodded his head, and got into the car, next to John. As Greg drove, John put his hand gently on Sherlock’s knee, but the younger man kept his eyes forward.

A while later the four were in Mrs. Hudson’s siting room, mug of hot tea in hand. She had made sandwiches earlier, before the service and arranged them neatly on a platter. Those sat in the middle of the coffee table with plates and some biscuits.

Sherlock declined the cuppa and the food, and just sat silently in his chair. His eyes still remained a bit unfocused and John kept a steady, reassuring grip on his arm.

After about an hour, Greg awkwardly announced he had some paperwork to do, and took his leave, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder again, told him to call if he needed him, and gave him a meaningful look before walking out the door. John and the consulting detective then decided to retire to their own flat, John carrying the leftover sandwiches their landlady had insisted they take with them.

 “You make sure he eats John.” She had whispered, pressing the sandwiches into his chest.

“I always do.” He replied, kissing Mrs. Hudson on the cheek. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.  I love you boys.”

Sherlock came over to them, and leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss onto the opposite cheek that John had kissed, not saying anything. He looked into her eyes, and she understood what he was trying to say without words. She dabbed the corner of her eye with her handkerchief and pulled Sherlock into a long, tight hug, arms wrapping around his shoulders. John could see Sherlock closing his eyes, his narrow shoulders slumping a fraction.  Just for a tiny, little moment Sherlock Holmes was soaking in a mother’s love.

How long had it been? Since the detective’s mother died? John hadn’t asked. The consulting detective was never forthcoming with information about his family. But to see Sherlock now, allowing himself to be hugged this way, even for only a moment…the doctor had to turn away. After a moment, they broke apart and she brushed a tear off her cheek.

 “Now go rest up dears. It’s been a long day.”  The landlady said, her voice trembling slightly and gently shooed them out of her flat.

They made their way upstairs and went inside, John shutting the door behind them. He put the sandwiches in the refrigerator, and then went up into his room and changed into an old jumper and blue jeans. He was relieved to get just a moment by himself. He ran a hand through his hair and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked pale, and tired.

The doctor had no idea what to do now. These last few months, he could follow Sherlock’s lead and pretend that there was nothing amiss with the elder Holmes. That Mycroft was going to be back to meddling in their lives like nothing had happened. But now, he was gone. Sherlock’s brother was dead, and he had no idea what the detective was feeling, and thinking and needed. Did he even want to discuss it? Did he want to be left alone? If only he would just _tell_ him. If he would just open his mouth and actually _say_ something. But no. That wasn’t Sherlock. He wouldn’t make it that easy. John sighed and for probably the thousandth time since he met the younger man, wished he had his powers of deduction and could simply read the answers he needed.

Back in the sitting room, he found Sherlock spread out over the sofa. He had changed into a pair of pyjamas and his blue dressing gown. He lay, taking up the entire couch with his long legs; face up with his eyes closed.

“Are you okay Sherlock?” John asked, not really able to think of anything to say.

“Yes. I am alright.” The younger man replied, bringing his long fingers under his chin.

“Want some tea?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Fine…budge up there will you?” Sherlock reluctantly sat up and John sat down on the end of the sofa, bringing Sherlock’s head onto his lap. The detective shifted and stretched so he was more comfortable, using John as a pillow. John ran a tender hand through his unruly curls, leaning down and kissing his forehead. “I love you.”

“And I you John.” Sherlock murmured, loving John’s hand weaving through his hair. The older man put on the telly; Sherlock twisting around so he was on his side, facing the television and they sat there for the rest of the evening. John lovingly stroking his hair, shoulder and back. They didn’t say a single word. They didn’t have to.

xxxxxx

It was Monday afternoon when Mycroft’s will was read. Aside from a very sizeable sum that was left to Anthea, (Her real name was Janet Johnson, they found out. Although the information was now irrelevant. Her job was now done after all.) Sherlock inherited everything. He merely nodded when he found out he inherited a sum of three million pounds, and Mycroft’s very large country estate. John had to fight the urge to let his mouth fall open. As soon as the attorney was finished reading, Sherlock stood and swooped out of the room.

They were silent in the cab all the way home. John reached out and put his hand over Sherlock’s, covering his long, pale fingers with his own. The detective didn’t look at him, just continued to look out the window; watching London pass by. However, he did move his wrist so his fingers were intertwined with John’s and squeezed.

The spent the rest of the afternoon playing chess and reading silently. Sherlock began to play the violin, but gave it up quickly.

John couldn’t get any food into him that night. Today, it was alright. John wasn’t going to push him. He merely made him a cup of tea, which he drank (if only to make John happy.)

They spent the rest of the evening much like they had spent the evening after the funeral. John sat on the sofa with Sherlock’s head on his lap. They watched inane telly and said nothing. Around ten pm, Sherlock got up and went to bed. John had followed. They fucked, and then curled up together and slept.

Around four that morning, John rolled over in bed, and did not encounter the warm weight of Sherlock that was there when he fell asleep. He opened his eyes and figured out why. Sherlock wasn’t in bed with him, and when John put his hand over; he found his side was cold. As if he had left it quite a while ago. He got out of bed and donned a t-shirt and boxers, and went out into the sitting room.

Sherlock was standing by the window, holding his violin but not playing. Just staring at it, lost in thought.  The moon shone in through the window, casting Sherlock’s face and body in a soft glow. He looked almost ethereal, standing in the moonlight holding his violin. He started when he heard John’s arrival, turning his head and looking at the doctor.

“My brother gave me this violin.” He said simply.

“It’s a lovely violin.” John came fully into the room and stood next to Sherlock. He ran his fingers over the strings and the polished wood. “When did he give it to you?”

“Ten years ago.” Sherlock replied. “He gave it to me when I was twenty five. After I quit cocaine for the first time.”

“Yeah?” John hardly ever heard Sherlock mention his past with narcotics. It was personal, and John really didn’t want to know about it. He didn’t want to envision Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock being so desperate for something to alleviate the suffering his brilliant mind frequently goes through that he would be willing to turn to drugs to get that fix.

“Yes.  I took lessons as a child and teenager, and he thought I needed something to distract me as an adult. He told me to play it when I got bored, and it would be better than the cocaine. Utter rubbish of course, but…nice all the same.”

John continued to run his hands over the instrument, taking in the little scratches and dings it received from being well-loved, and played often.

“Did you know that Mycroft was the one forced me clean in the first place?” Sherlock asked, his voice a little tighter than before.

 “No. You never said.” John wasn’t sure how much more of this he wanted to hear. He could tell it was causing Sherlock pain to talk about it. But maybe...that was precisely why he needed to talk about it. God, Mycroft was right all those years ago. His therapist was an idiot. He came to the exact same conclusion she would have, and he didn’t study psychology. The doctor moved his hand from the violin to lay it on Sherlock’s arm.

“He did.” Sherlock continued, eyes moving over John’s face, searching for a reaction. “I had just had my twenty fifth birthday. He hadn’t heard from me in months, so he came to my flat. It was a miserable, tiny, cramped place. I didn’t have access to my inheritance then and I wasn’t exactly spending the money I got from the few cases I solved for a client here and there on furniture at the time. He came in, and found me very much under the influence. He stood in front of me, grabbed my shoulders, shook me and yelled in my face. It was the first and only time I had ever seen Mycroft lose his temper with me.” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and added; “Or at all really.”

“Anyway, he instantly calmed himself and had two of his people pick me up by my arms and legs, as I was kicking and shouting. They threw me into his car and took me back to his own house. He thought I would do better if I were…away from other patients. I began my rehabilitation that night. He took care of me during the unpleasantness of withdrawal. Rather against my will. I was there for three months. Imprisoned in his guest bedroom.” 

“About five months after I got home, I was back in that hateful bedroom. Mycroft’s doing.” His voice trailed off, and he stared out the window for a long moment; then started talking again.

“You know John…that was the only time I had ever seen my brother shed tears. Not even when Mummy died when I was eighteen and he was twenty five. But he cried when he walked into my flat and caught me injecting, mere months after leaving his house.” He looked back at John’s eyes. “That time, I was trapped there for another six months. I left his house at the age of  twenty six. I relapsed one more time a few years later. I was thirty. I was bored and out of work, and because at that point, I had my inheritance after having received it when I turned twenty seven, I had all the money in the world to burn.”

“During the subsequent year I lived with him, Mycroft introduced me to Lestrade and I began working for him as a consulting detective. It was slow and tentative at first. Lestrade was nervous about hiring a junkie fresh off the needle. But I slowly gained his confidence, and soon work was enough to keep me away from cocaine permanently. I was thirty one, living in a squalid flat because I didn’t care about anything but work. I nearly relapsed again at age thirty four. Work hadn’t been forthcoming in about a month, and I had nearly gone out of my mind with boredom. But the fear of losing my work stayed my hand. I called Mycroft instead. He came to my flat and stayed with me for a week, until the feeling passed.

“It was he who insisted that I move into 221B, after I helped out Mrs. Hudson and she offered me that special break in the rent.  He thought a change of scenery would help keep me clean. He installed the CCTV cameras himself. I met you a few weeks later.” He spoke rapidly, his voice almost completely flat and disconnected. But finally, he looked up into John’s eyes and took a deep breath before speaking again.

“Mycroft would still come unexpectedly. He never told me when he would arrive, but I always knew he was checking up on me. Almost every single day he came to see me in the first few months. He would come while you were at work. Then his visits dropped steadily down to a once a week affair. He saw that you were good for me. He saw that I was eating, and that I was solving cases. He read your blog and saw that I was happy. Yet…yet he still always kept an eye on me. Even until now...”

 His voice trailed off suddenly and he turned away again. John could see him in the window’s reflection; blinking several times rapidly, as if trying to get something out of his eyes.

Sherlock turned to face John then. His face a tightly controlled mask. “John…” he said, his voice low and pained. “My brother is dead.” He met the shorter man’s eyes with such a look of frailty and utter _comprehension_ that John’s heart broke at the sight of it. ‘ _finally.’_ He thought to himself.

“Yes Sherlock.” He replied, reaching up and stroking his pale cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“And he isn’t coming back.” Sherlock kept blinking, his Adam’s apple working furiously in his throat.

“No Sherlock…” John’s voice cracked, he cleared his throat. “No he isn’t. God I’m sorry.”

“And so he won’t stick his big… _stupid_ nose in my life anymore. He…he won’t spy on me anymore…he won’t…he won’t interfere…make sure I’m still clean…he won’t…he’ll never…he’ll never… _I’ll_ never…” Sherlock’s breathing grew harder and shallow. He blinked a few more times, his mask starting to crumble, and give way. That carefully, rigidly controlled façade was crumbling into pieces, revealing the heartache underneath. The blue/grey eyes that now met John’s were… _helpless_. Completely lost and full of pain.  John instinctively plucked the violin from Sherlock’s long, fingers, put it down on the music stand and wrapped him in a hug. It was fierce and crushing and full of love.

John could feel Sherlock’s body starting to tremble as he wrapped his, long wiry arms around John’s back, clutching him, digging in his fingers hard enough to leave bruises through the thin cotton t-shirt. The former soldier dragged him to the couch and pulled him onto his lap. Sherlock wrapped his entire body into a ball on John’s knees, shaking hard now. John was momentarily aware of how ridiculous it must look; a full grown man sitting on the couch with another grown man who was at least six inches taller than him, in his lap. But then Sherlock began to speak, mumbled words muffled against the side of John’s neck, where he had his entire face buried. “That’s it John…I’m the only one…I have no…family. I’m _actually_ alone.” To his horror, John could feel moisture on his neck. Sherlock was weeping.

John wrapped his arms around the younger man’s thin frame, squeezing with all his strength. He ran his hands across his back and through his hair. “You aren’t alone Sherlock. Remember…remember what I said to you before. I’m here. I will always be here.”  He crooned, kissing his hair over and over. “I’m here, and I’m your family. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. We are your family.” His throat grew tight and constricted with emotion. His own tears were shed then, falling into Sherlock’s hair.

“I promise you Sherlock. I will never go anywhere. As long as you want me here, I will stay. I love you, and you are not alone. You have a family, because _I am your family_. But please… _please_ just don’t… _hurt_ like this Sherlock. _Please._ ”  He pleaded.

He continued to rub his hands across the planes of Sherlock’s back and shoulders rocking him gently back and forth. He didn’t even know he was rocking him like a child, but he was. Sherlock’s shaking slowly subsided and eventually stopped. He stopped crying after a few more minutes and pulled away from John’s neck, his face was blotchy. His cheeks were pink and his eyes were swollen.  He kissed John’s lips, then his cheeks. His tears tasted salty. John planted exquisitely gentle kisses to each of Sherlock’s eyelids.

“Thank you John.” Sherlock whispered, voice cracked and husky.

“I love you.” John replied simply.

There was no hint of awkwardness now. Only exhaustion. Sherlock stood, taking John’s hand and leading him upstairs to the bedroom. They laid back down, Sherlock moulded into John’s front, who had his arms wrapped tight and protective around him. There were no more questions between them. They both knew exactly what they were and would always be. A family.

_FIN_


End file.
